Mission of the Golden Angel
by Becky99
Summary: The IMF is in Paris where Cinnamon meets and discovers herself in jeopardy via a very smitten opera ghost! Cinnamon/Rollin ... and Erik! COMPLETED FICTION.
1. Chapter 1

**MISSION OF THE GOLDEN ANGEL**

_(This is a **Mission: Impossible/Phantom of the Opera** fiction written in the early 1990s. It was a crossover zine but I am uncertain if the zine was ever published. It's been awhile. I know it sounds a little odd but if you stick with it you just might think otherwise. Hope you enjoy it! Becky)_

[1]

1970.

As in the past, it was the music which started his quest. Beautiful. Calm. Melodic.

Up until this date, March sixth, he had stayed away from the opera house and everything it represented. There were too many painful memories and they, those who owned the opera house now, no longer played The Phantom's favorite music.

He saw it slowly creep away after 1910 to be replaced with other forms of entertainment. First, there came the blasphemy of burlesque acts. Then, there was that Jazz music. Big Band eventually came and went to be followed by the ultimate humiliation: A movie theater! The Phantom had been pleased when the cinema, after a successful ten-year run, closed. It was rumored that the theater would be refashioned. But -to his horror - a new music came. It was nineteen fifty five and they called it: "Rock and Roll".

Young men and women would come to his opera house by the hundreds and listen to performers, many atrociously dressed and most untalented, strum stringed instruments and beat on drums and tambourines. The Phantom thought he would go mad yet again -particularly when, in the early nineteen sixties, an electronic sound system had been installed. There was absolutely no way to remove himself from the sounds that came from the stage every night! He eventually resorted to ear plugs but there was a time when Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, seriously thought about making his presence known again. He wanted desperately to frighten these children away. These ignorant young fools who knew nothing of true music.

But, he had made a promise to Christine...

Now he heard an old and familiar sound. Two beautiful voices raised in song. One was female. A soprano. The other a tenor male.

They were singing songs to an opera he thought long dead. How was this possible? They were singing to the music of The Phantom's Don Juan Triumphant! His opera! His first and last opera. The opera he had written specifically for Christine.

Erik couldn't hold back. He had to investigate!

The Phantom of the Opera, considered long dead (as he thought was his music), prowled once again. His sojourn to the top, where normal men lived, awakened so many memories. He could hear the orchestra playing the notes he'd created... and that sweet voice, almost as clear as his first love's had been ("Christine, is that you?").

He immediately felt the change from those earlier days as he slid his body through a secret panel and passed undetected through the upstairs lobby to his cherished Box Five. All was still intact. Everything was new yet somehow the same. The velvet curtains had changed from blood red to navy blue but his bronze angels were still present, if somewhat updated. The very air he breathed seemed new yet also belonged to an earlier era... when young ladies held lace fans and parasols and gentlemen wore top hats and white gloves. He had come home!

Now, who was this on stage? Erik's heart sank a little as he watched the attractive black woman sing to a handsome, if somewhat overweight, Italian gentleman. No, this wasn't Christine. How could he have suspected otherwise? She was dead, as was her legacy. Still, this couple, mismatched as they were, sung quite well together. A woman of color singing opera... Who would have ever thought such a thing could happen?

The Phantom was happier than he had been for years. Someone must have journeyed down into the opera house vaults and found _Don Juan Triumphant._ Would they give The Phantom his due or would the opera simply be credited to an unknown genius?

The woman, as she sang, looked up at his box and Erik stepped back. It would not do for her to see him. It would pain Erik to frighten a songstress with such talent. Why disturb the rehearsal with her screams?

He sighed. The owners and managers of the theater had fallen back on tradition and he could not approve more. Who were they? What could he expect to hear in the future? The Phantom suddenly felt a bit disillusioned. Why was he torturing himself again? None of the questions he was asking himself would be answered by another person. Who did he know? No, he would have to be a common thief once again, as he was in 1880, and snatch a program booklet without the knowledge of anyone present. They would be down in the front lobby, he assumed.

Erik moved with the stealth and grace of a panther until he reached the grill connected to the ventilation shaft, which was positioned in the lower lobby. He had a good view of nearly everything, including a table where the theater pamphlets were laying. He nearly detached the grill when he heard a noise. People were entering the lobby from the lower theater.

This was where he first saw Cinnamon Carter.

At first, it was the glint of her golden hair that caught his attention. He had seen fair haired women before but this, along with her great beauty, made The Phantom stare. There was something more to this female than an expensively tailored suit, the skirt fashionably short for the time period, and a striking elegance. The Phantom had picked up on her psychic vibrations right away. Her outside confidence was shielding something ….

Erik connected with very few people but this young woman was exceptional. Although she didn't show it, she was nervous about something. He sensed danger. She was smiling but there was a hidden fear behind that calm exterior.

"Darling," she said, moving close to the man not, The Phantom thought, worthy of her, "you know how I feel about this opera... It's charming and has an air of mystery to it. But Louis, as long as you're turning a profit, who cares about scruples?"

A chill ran through Erik's body. She was lying to her associate. He did not know why this lady was being forced to act in a way that was cheap and foreign to her but the performance was good enough to convince the fool she was much like he. Erik sensed she was a very moral female and, somehow, felt she was in trouble.

Laughing, the man took her in his arms and kissed her, "You American women are so wise," he said, "I do not know why I failed to see your good business sense before, Claudia."

He embraced the woman and Erik carefully watched her expression over his shoulder. She was not smiling. The Phantom could see the concentration on her lovely face. Her beautiful green eyes, once soft, had grown hard. What was she up to?

Then those eyes, which Erik had so admired, focused on the grill. She was looking directly at him! He moved back but it was too late. He could tell by her searching gaze that she had beheld the masked ghoul, although her body language hadn't disturbed her suitor.

"Claudia, my love ..." Louis Limoise pulled her back, "_Don Juan __Triumphant_ premiers tomorrow evening. I will pick you up at your hotel..." He escorted her to the doors which led to the outside of the building, "By Monday, we shall see how many millions of francs are possible with our latest acquisition ..."

The woman barely listened to him, glancing over her shoulder to look at the grill once again, as she was being steered away.

Millions of francs? What was that buffoon talking about? The Phantom had become agitated. Not only had this Claudia woman seen him but there was definitely something unsavory afoot. He had to go see her. Erik shivered at the thought. He would be exposing himself to the outside world once again but if this union between he and the woman, his Golden Angel, might mean saving the opera house and, possibly, his music, then he had to take action.

He would make his move tonight. Erik would go to her hotel room and talk with her. He could be making a big mistake, but he doubted it. She was special _(like Christine . . . ) _and could tell him many things. He now had a purpose in his accursed life!

[]

As he prowled the night, The Phantom had to confess something to himself. He still cared about people. Why else would he be going through this? Yes, there was the opera house and his music to think of, but that had made little difference to him over the past one hundred years. Because of his "wounded heart" he hadn't really cared what happened to the building or_ Don Juan Triumphant_. Both had been a part of a past misery.

But now this woman... He did not know her _(but then he hadn't known Christine either ...)_ but he feared for her. Erik felt she might be getting herself involved with something she was ill prepared to discard if such an attempt became necessary. She was pretending to be ruthless and was easily swayed, as was the nature of the female, by her companion's words. She didn't realize what could happen. She couldn't see what type of a treacherous man he really was. The Phantom had to save the woman from herself. He couldn't allow this virtuous American to make the mistakes he had made in the past.

And there it was. By rescuing her he might be saving himself... _(From the wrath of God? Was it too late for that?)_. He might be saving his own soul.

Earlier, back at the opera house, The Phantom had crawled further into the ventilation shaft and took a turn which brought him to a barred window. Again, he watched the couple as the man hailed a taxi and told the driver to take the lady to the _Hotel Le Demur_. The woman, _Claudia_, (the name simply didn't suit her, Erik thought), presented the man with a key to her room.

There was a promise of a late night supper at some future date. The key had the number 312 on it.

That was five hours ago, and now he stood - in the dark of night - below her window. His first thought was of scaling the outside wall. The room was only three floors up and he had no worries. How often had he scaled the walls of his underground dwelling without ever fretting he might fall? But, as an afterthought, he decided to make his way into the hotel through their heating ducts. He knew this building. Opera divas had stayed here during the late eighteen hundreds. It was old and the shafts, like the opera house, were huge.

Determined, Erik pulled his cape comfortably over his shoulders and headed toward the hotel's back entrance.

Cinnamon Carter lay on the bed in her elaborate suite and thought about what she had seen at the theater. She vainly tried to push the face from her mind. After all, she was on a mission and it wouldn't be right, allowing her thoughts to be clouded with an incident unrelated to their current assignment.

She had to be sharp. Jim kept punching that phrase into his team. Had he noticed how distracted some of them were lately? Cinnamon tried to hide it but, perhaps because they had worked so many years together, Jim Phelps knew she was thinking of retirement. She just wished she could tell him why. As exciting as all of this was, working with the IMF wasn't a job for a woman who wanted the longevity of a secure relationship and family. Yet, so many people were depending on her Was she being selfish?

Miss Carter's mind drifted. Who was that man at the theater? Did he have something to do with Louis Limoise? She hadn't told Jim or any of the others about him yet. She didn't think it important. Maybe she should have. But something was there... A strange voice to the back of her brain which told Cinnamon to hold back. He wasn't involved. This was something for her to explore when the mission was over.

If all worked as planned, that would be tonight. She would have some time off and instead of flying back to the United States, she might stay awhile longer and do a little research.

Cinnamon smiled when thinking of what Rollin might say about that. He would insist on staying with her and he might also tell her she was being silly. Why did she really care about this masked man who was staring at her from behind a wall? And he would be right.

She had more important personal problems to think about and, of course, there was work.

Was it those rumors about The Phantom? She nearly laughed at the idea. Really, she hadn't thought about that foolish French fairy tale since she was a little girl.

Cinnamon closed her eyes when she thought she heard a noise in her suite. Was someone there? She didn't move a muscle.

"Wake up, my Golden Angel. I must talk with you," came a whisper, close to her ear.

Then, all hell broke loose.

The camera's flashbulbs snapped and crackled. An overhead light came on without warning and, very suddenly, men ran into the room. They held firearms and were looking at the masked phantom in shock.

Cinnamon sat up in her bed and gaped at the intruder, who was looking about as if he were a trapped animal. 'My God,' she thought, 'he's the man from the opera house! Why is he here?'

Erik stunned and enraged, launched himself toward the balcony. He was over the railing in no time.

"Who the hell was that?" Rollin Hand asked in a shout as he and Barney Collier looked over the railing and watched the masked man quickly descend the side of the building. He was moving at a rapid speed and had disappeared into the darkness so fleetingly both knew they hadn't a chance to catch him.

The men turned to Cinnamon and Jim, who were talking. She was still sitting up on the bed and Jim, cigarette in his gesturing hand, looked concerned.

"No, Jim." she said, "I don't know who he was. It could have just been a burglar who picked the wrong room."

"Are you certain he wasn't one of Limoise's men sent to take care of you?"

"No, I told you Louis Limoise might let his men kill other men but when it comes to hard-hearted women, he likes to strangle them with his own hands." Cinnamon sighed with regret, "I was so certain he would come for me tonight."

"He still might." Rollin offered, leaning against the glass door which separated the balcony from the suite.

Phelps shook his head as if he didn't think so. "If he hasn't come by now, I doubt he will come at all tonight. He probably wants to wait until after the opera. While you're still alive, he wants to be able to brag."

"The final act." Barney said, nearly theatrically.

Phelps looked out the balcony again, "I would still like to know who that man was." He glanced at each of the others who appeared as puzzled as he, "Let's get some shut eye. We're going to have a long day tomorrow. Limoise is going to have a staff meeting and the room needs to be bugged before ten a.m."

Barney nodded as Jim turned and walked from the room.

"Go get some sleep, Barney." Rollin said, "Cinnamon and I will clear up here. You're going to need rest."

Collier nodded again with an appreciative smile, and exited.

Cinnamon stood, her silky nightdress swirling about her, and reached for a camera case. "It's too bad it didn't work," she said, "but it will be interesting to see how the pictures turn out. If the man was a thief, we might be able to …" Suddenly, the woman was grasped from behind and twirled about.

Rollin's face was close to her own. "This is the first time we've been alone since we came to Paris. Do you really want to just talk shop?"

The couple kissed passionately.

"We can't ..." she pulled away reluctantly, "Rollin, we're working. You know the rules."

"We're in Paris, France - the land of romance … Damn the rules." He pulled Cinnamon to him again.

Their love affair had started a little over a year ago. Neither intended for it to happens. They were on one of those assignments that was rare. Meaning, it was less dangerous than most and the setting was a tropical paradise. One night, while alone in their hotel room (posing as husband and wife), Rollin and Cinnamon had taken their false identities to heart and, in the heat of the sultry night, made love.

They swore it would never happen again - but it did. They could not resist one another. The harder they tried to avoid each other, the more miserable they felt. It was so ridiculously unfair. They were career people who, because of certain regulations, were not allowed to feel such emotions for colleagues.

Then, one month ago Rollin finally said it. He told Cinnamon he had fallen in love with her and was willing to give up the entire spying business if it meant they could be together without reservation.

Cinnamon was so confused. She loved him in return but was not so sure that was enough. There would be no going back to their careers if they found it all a horrible mistake. How could they be trusted again if Phelps and The Secretary found out about what was going on between two of their best agents?

"Rollin, please give it more time." Cinnamon urged, even as she felt the passion of his kisses. "I'm just not that certain yet." But she could not look into his eyes as she said this, "I love you. Please … just a little more time."

He stepped back from her. Rollin said, "I know how I feel, Cinnamon. I know I want you... but if you're not feeling the same things I am, then..." Her unreadable expression angered him a little, "Sometimes I think you keep things from me."

Her head snapped up. She felt a little ill. "No, don't think that. It's different for a woman, Rollin. Try to understand," she nearly pleaded. Cinnamon couldn't remember the last time she begged a man for anything.

The gesture went to his heart, "I'm so sorry." Rollin spoke gently, reaching out to touch her shoulder - "I shouldn't be so demanding, but I can't help it. I'm sure of what I want," he smiled mildly, "and what I'm sure you want."

Cinnamon bowed her head and almost chuckled. He was being honest. She couldn't fault him for that. She lifted her head and came into her lover's arms again. "Thank you. It won't be long. I'll make my decision soon. I promise."

[]

A mental fever had engulfed him to such an extent that by the time The Phantom returned to his lair, he was totally beyond reasoning.

"Betrayed!" he cried aloud. Could no one be trusted in the accursed outside world? He had been so certain the woman needed his protection, in spite of the way she acted in the theater lobby. "Fool!" Erik wailed.

She lied to him without ever having said a word. It was clear to him now. Golden Angel and those men were blackmailers. What else could it be? She was nothing but a cheap harlot, wheedling away at naive unsuspecting men who, like The Phantom, thought her better than the spiritual facade she displayed.

Now he understood why Limoise had mentioned "millions of francs". He was worth that much, thanks in part to The Phantom's opera. How many theaters, Erik wondered, had _Don Juan Triumphant _played over the years before coming back to its original home?!

The woman and her associates were going to take that idiot for all he was worth. That must be it!

Christine might have been his victim but this Claudia woman had boldly and unwittingly raped The Phantom! Oh, how he hated her now! He should have known better than to risk himself. What was the benefit of trying to save a soul if that door of good will was forever being slammed in his face?

Pacing, The Phantom knew of only one thing which was inescapable. He was going to have to make an example of her - this treacherous woman. It didn't matter what he had once promised Christie. If he did not vent his rage against the impure Claudia, he might truly go berserk and kill a genuine innocent.

_Claudia_... She would be at the opera -_his opera_- tomorrow evening.

The Phantom would have his vengeance!

[]

continued ...


	2. Chapter 2

[2]

Cinnamon's eyes took in the wonder of the experience. Limoise had left her to talk with a few of his business partners so she now stood alone, during the intermission, with a glass of champagne in her hand. Her IMF teammates were everywhere, of course, but - as was often the case - they were separate identities. She did not know then and they did not know her. Even Rollin, who hadn't made eye contact with her since arriving, was simply another body filling the upstairs lobby.

With a gentle swirl of her green taffeta gown, Cinnamon slowly walked up and down the hall area. Her intelligent eyes were looking for signs of trouble, just in case the mission decided not to go off as planned. And, she had to admit to herself, they were also on the lookout for her mask friend. She consciously found herself gazing up at the grilled vents for signs of movement.

It was ridiculous, she thought. Just because a crazy man arrived at her hotel room in the middle of the night and whispered "Golden Angel" into her ear didn't mean he was The Phantom of the Opera, for Heaven's sake. Maybe she was wrong. Perhaps the two sightings had been of two totally different men.

Cinnamon attempted to push him from her mind. It was simply the pressure of so many decisions to make all at once. She was merely suffering from something akin to delusions. Perhaps Rollin was right. They both needed out of this business so they could live a normal life. Lives filled with love, marriage and children. Cinnamon put a hand to her stomach. She did want a baby ...

"Golden Angel," came a whisper.

Stunned, Cinnamon stood still. She nearly dropped her glass. Slowly, she turned about but saw no one who could have called to her. The guests of the opera house were all filing back into the theater, eagerly anticipating the second act.

"Come my golden one..."

For a brief moment, Cinnamon felt drawn to the voice. It was as if every fiber of her being was compelled to do something good sense told her was wrong. She had a job to do. She couldn't just run off and leave.

"Claudia, darling." A different French accent, more earthbound than the other, sounded. "Dear, it's time to go back in."

Cinnamon looked at Limoise, a touch confused. "Yes, of course," she recovered. "It's a beautiful opera, isn't it?" she said, as she put down the champagne glass and they returned to their seats.

"Very passionate." Limoise agreed, then vulgarly whispered: "The best money can steal." He chuckled at his wit, "And to think my name is on it. I'm so proud." Again, he laughed.

Cinnamon knew better than to get emotionally involved with an assignment but, at this moment, even though her expression did not show it, she hated the man she was now sitting beside Someone, nearly one hundred years ago, toiled long and hard on _Don Juan Triumphant_. It wasn't at all fair that this sad excuse for a writer was going to get credit for its creation, even after the IMF sent him away to prison.

None of this had anything to do with the fact that Cinnamon's life was at risk; that Limoise was going to try and murder her (as was in the IMF plan). To many, her concerns might even seem asinine. After all, fraud was far less an abomination than homicide. Yet, she still felt unsatisfied that this man was only going to prison for his many killings and not on another charge that she considered nearly as heinous: Forgery!

The lights hadn't yet dimmed so Cinnamon looked about the theater. It was truly grand. Someone had gone to great lengths to make it as impressive as it must have been in the late eighteen hundreds. She glanced from row to row and from box to box. It was a full house. And yet, there was one box straight across from them, in the balcony, which was empty. She asked Limoise about it.

"Superstition." he said, "History has it that Box Five is haunted and, if on the opening night of any performance it is not left empty for the ghost to watch, a catastrophe will occur."

"It's the story of The Phantom, isn't it?"

"Yes. All nonsense, of course, but it is a tradition that the opera house and shareholders prefer to uphold. Sentiment, I suppose."

Cinnamon nodded as the lights dimmed and the curtain opened. Soothing music cascaded over the audience, lulling them into a false sense of calm. Inwardly, Miss Carter sighed. Her eyes moved from the stage to, once again, look over at Box Five.

He was there.

If it had been any other woman, she would have jumped with a start, but Cinnamon, given her many years as an IMF agent, was able to merely stare at the masked face. He was looking directly at her. She watched his hands raise. He was beckoning her to come to him. Cinnamon wasn't in a trance but she was intrigued. She tore her eyes from him to search for her colleagues. She could find no one. When she looked back, he was gone.

There was no time to waste.

Cinnamon had to know who this masked man was. "Excuse me," she spoke to Limoise.

"What is it, Cheri'?"

"Nothing. I'll be right back." she answered, standing from her aisle seat.

In the hall, Cinnamon raced to where seating would normally start for Box Five, but she never quite made it. It was as if a black veil had been placed over her face. She lost her footing and fell... but her body never hit the carpet. A few moments later she knew nothing.

[]

She awoke, laying on a bed with sheets of the finest fabrics made in Paris. She could hear music in the distance and there was a dampness in the air that reminded her of a cave she once explored when a child. Cinnamon had a difficult time remembering what happened. She was walking to Box Five, then there was blackness. Had she fainted? Did Limoise put something in her champagne when she wasn't looking? Why hadn't he just killed her?

Where was she now?

Cinnamon, still conscious of the music being played on an organ, looked over at the exit to the strange room. It was curtained, much like the gaudy theater exists. Carefully, she stood up. She was still a bit woozy. The effect from an efficient drug, she assumed. If Limoise went to all the trouble to bring her here... there must be more than mere murder on his mind.

Slowly, Cinnamon walked to the opening. She stopped and cautiously peered out into the other room.

Persian carpets lay on a concrete floor. A chandelier hung from a stone ceiling. Priceless pieces of art were attached to craggy walls, which had never seen the light of day. And there was a long table made of oak and shined to perfection. On it lay foods which would make the most discerning gourmet squeal with ecstasy, but all of this was nothing when compared to the huge pipe organ which dominated the room. It was wooden, as most of these instruments are, but it had been molded for a master. The pipes were plated with the finest gold leaf and intricate carvings

overwhelmed the eye.

Seated at the organ was The Phantom of the Opera.

There was no doubt in Cinnamon's mind who he was. She wanted to fight it. Common sense told her, or anyone, that the man died over a century ago, if he had ever lived at all! No, it wasn't him, but yes, it was. Good God, how could this be?

"Come in, My Dear."

Automatically, Cinnamon's self control took over the minute she heard his voice. The countenance of wonder and fear was replaced with one of expectancy and cool refinement. She walked and stood beside her host as he played the organ, trying to read what was hidden behind the mask of stark white. "How long have I been here?" she asked, without eagerness.

"An hour. _Don Juan Triumphant _has nearly finished up above." He never skipped a note.

The French accent was cultured, Cinnamon decided. If he was a madman, as one might suspect, then he was one who had been well educated. His English, as far as she could tell, was nearly flawless. "Why am I here?"

The Phantom played on for a moment longer. Then: "To have supper with me."

"I don't remember being extended an invitation," she countered, annoyed by his glibness.

"You were. Last night. I interpreted the actions of you and your friends as a 'yes'." His hands swept the keyboard, "I have been preparing our meal since early this morning."

"You shouldn't have." Cinnamon was tiring of his nonchalantness, "Tell me who you really are."

Unexpected, his hands slammed down on the organ keys, startling Cinnamon and causing her to step back a bit. "Did I fail to introduce myself?" He turned to her, angry - "Forgive me, My Lady, but I didn't have time last night. I was interrupted right in the middle of preamble. Do you remember?"

Cinnamon was somewhat awed as he stood to his full height. He was a tall man, taller even than Rollin's six foot three inches. "What were you doing in my room last night?" She didn't back down. "Did I unknowingly extend to you another type of invitation?" She felt a little badly about her outburst, even if she didn't know why. She had every right to be furious with this man or specter, or whatever he wanted to be known as. She thought a moment, "I don't know quite how to explain this to you, but I was in the middle of something very important when you took me away from the opera house..."

"Yes, I know..." he started in a sinister voice, "but we can discuss it over supper. Come, Angel." The Phantom lifted a hand and was pleased when she put hers atop it. At least this woman wouldn't go whining and screaming to her doom, Erik thought. Christine had been precious to him, but there were times when her innocence got in the way of common sense. She often wailed where there was no reason to do so. "Make yourself comfortable." he said to Cinnamon, as a gentleman should. He pulled a chair out for her at his right. He nodded when she sat with little complaint. He sat himself and began to serve.

"This is all very kind of you ..." Cinnamon spoke, suddenly feeling some urgency in her situation, "...but I must get back to the theater. People are waiting for me there. You don't understand what is going on."

The Phantom placed a bit of beef and vegetables on her plate, "I understand that you and your gentlemen friends were going to do something unsavory to M. Limoise." he said, "I understand there is a great deal of money involved. I also know that a piece of music, the opera which was performed this evening, is mine. I wrote it nearly one hundred years ago."

Cinnamon sat, stunned. He was either a madman or was teasing her for some ungodly reason. "_You_ wrote _Don Juan Triumphant_? Louis told me he found it in an old locked desk. He knew it had never been produced so he made it his own. I arranged for it myself..." Her host said nothing. He merely ate. "I've heard stories about The Phantom." She decided to change the subject when he refused to be responsive to their original topic, "Are we really beneath the opera house?" she asked.

"Yes," He paused before speaking further, "When I was young,

I went to India and learned from men who were both wonderful architects and masterful illusionist. I found I could bring these two together. This is one reason no one has ever come down here and found me. After all these years, a simple illusion keeps fools away. That and my sense of humor. I do like to scare the children who come to call during the late night hours. They often come here on dares and I make sounds to frighten them. The teenagers are sometimes harder to frighten than the little ones, but when I stand before them and unmask myself, even the bravest run screaming from my presence." He chuckled and took a bite of potato.

Macabre but effective, Cinnamon thought of his indulgence. She looked about the room, as she had at the curtained door. "And you live here all alone? Do you ever go to the surface other than to look at people through the ventilators or follow them to their hotels?" She hadn't meant for the comment to sound as callous as it did.

The Phantom put down his fork with a clunk and looked at her with barely suppressed indignation, "I will forgive you for your disrespect this time, Mademoiselle, but do not do it again." He expected her to look away or feel some form of embarrassment but she only sat, looking directly at her dinner companion, without expression. Erik didn't know if she was just too frighten to speak or was hoping for this reaction out of him. "To answer your question, I very seldom go to the surface. I occasionally go up for food and to purchase a newspaper, if a headline catches my attention, but I am usually here — alone in my misery."

Abruptly, Cinnamon asked: "Why did you go to my room last night?"

It was a fair enough question so The Phantom leaned back in his chair, taking the napkin from his lap and placing it on the table. "I sensed you were in danger when I saw you and M. Limoise together yesterday in the theater lobby. You didn't look as if you needed help, but I felt you did."

"Does that happen often?"

"Never." He shrugged, yielding a bit: "Once, when I was a boy, I sensed a house servant was going to fall from a ladder she was standing

on while cleaning. I was very fond of Esmeralda and, in spite of my outward appearance, she of me. She got down when I asked her to but later, a servant who didn't know better, tried to finish what I put a stop to and he fell, hitting his head, and he died. The ladder was poorly constructed and something had given away. I was twelve years old... How could I know?"

Now, Cinnamon did look down at her hands. She felt no shame or coyness but she did begin to understand how this creature thought. "And why am I here now?" she asked, hoping for a satisfactory answer. She could easily manipulate him if it was romance on his mind. She had used this method before and wasn't beyond using her talents if it got her out of a hazardous situation. Cinnamon had been trained well.

"I brought you here to kill you." The Phantom said, without indecision.

This time her expression did register shock, "Why?" she exclaimed, suddenly too nervous to hear the answer.

"It is your type of woman which emasculates men. You use your charms to betray and deceive. I have been the victim of such women. First my mother, Madeline, then..." He deliberated a moment, "As long as women like you are permitted to live, men will never be able to roam the world, free of fear. The fear of showing our faces... because some female will find it unattractive... or monster-like. A man is a man. It doesn't matter how he looks. He still has the same emotions..."

"I might say the same for women!" she suddenly shouted. This was a ludicrous conversation, but Cinnamon felt the need to defend her sex. "If I wasn't nice to look at would you be dining with me right now? No. If I were homely, you wouldn't be attracted to me and we wouldn't be having this conversation." Cinnamon could have gone on for volumes, defending women and why they did much of what they did, but it just didn't seem worth it. He was going to believe what he wanted. If The Phantom thought the opposite sex were here on Earth simply designed to snare men in their webs of deceit, then nothing she said, after all of these years, was going to make him believe otherwise.

Oddly, she and Rollin had had conversations much like this... How she wished he was here right now.

"You have a hearty tongue on you. Angel." The Phantom said calmly. "Perhaps you don't really believe I am going to do what I say." With a quick motion, he lifted a sharp knife, which was sitting beside her dinner plate, and placed it forcefully under Cinnamon's chin, "Be glib now, My Pet. I would like the excuse."

Cinnamon said nothing but her expression spoke for itself.

Satisfied, he tossed the utensil aside, "Not as sure as you would have me believe," he chuckled without humor.

"Not for myself..." she murmured, under her breath.

"What?" The Phantom looked at Cinnamon, puzzled for a moment. "Is it the men you are worried about? If so, you needn't..."

"No, ...they can take care of themselves."

"Then what?" It suddenly dawned on him. The "sense" he had about her had kicked in once again. She didn't have to admit it. He knew. "You are going to have a baby!" Now he understood the tension he felt in her while she was with Limoise in the theater lobby. She was not worried about herself but for the life inside her womb. "Is that dolt, Limoise, the father?"

"God, no," she stated clearly, "Louis Limoise is a psychotic killer." Cinnamon had gone this far. She feared she wouldn't get out of The Phantom's lair alive if she didn't tell him the rest. "I work for an American organization known as The Impossible Mission Force. We are dispatched when there is an assignment so difficult that only a few specialists can handle its complexities. Limoise is a supposed opera writer and... serial murderer, but he is so careful and is liked by so many people that it has been hard to pin anything on him. He is wealthy and has friends in very high places. The moment he is arrested on suspicion, he is cleared and there is nothing more the French police can do." Cinnamon watched The Phantom as he listened. She wondered if he believed her. "He recently murdered the wife of a Canadian ambassador … It is our job to make certain that he is arrested again and there is unimpeachable evidence placed in the authorities' hands and, if this can't be done, we have been told to arrange his death."

The Phantom wasn't naive. He had always suspected such leagues existed. "But why would Americans care about a Frenchman who kills? I'm sure you have your own..."

Cinnamon interrupted, not unkindly. "Until I took her place, we knew who his next victim was going to be: Claudia Bernard. The daughter of Martin Bernard, a very important man in the U.S. government. Claudia being schooled in Paris and is staying here to work as an executive in a music publishing company." Cinnamon sighed, "Even we don't understand all of the details. We are just trying to save lives."

"Then, you weren't intending to blackmail Limoise?"

"No. The opera and opera house were just part of an intricate plan to make Claudia Bernard even more desirable to Limoise. Supposedly, it is she - or me - who arranges for Limoise to gain access to many operas written by talented but unknown artists. The IMF set this up with Miss Bernard's consent. Now that opera has made a resurgence, Limoise is in demand. There is only one person who can blow the whistle on him and have it actually mean anything. His accomplice: Claudia Bernard. She knows a lot about Limoise. Isn't it only natural that he wants her done away with?"

There was a long pause as The Phantom digested this information, "Who is the father of your child?" he asked, gently changing the subject again.

It was Cinnamon's turn to hesitate, "Another agent," she spoke quietly, "We've been discussing marriage," she added, somewhat unnecessarily. "He doesn't know I'm pregnant."

"You must tell him." Erik said in barely a whisper.

Cinnamon didn't reply.

The Phantom stood eloquently to his feet, "I will take you back to the theater." He reached for his cape which hung on a hook between marble statues of Apollo and Venus. Erik didn't know everything and wasn't certain he wanted to, but he had no reason to keep this woman here. He deemed her truthful. The blood lust The Phantom had felt earlier in the day vanished. He should have known better. He felt her as he hadn't for (Christine...) a lifetime.

Without reservation, he lifted his hands to her and waited while the woman responded, allowing their fingers to touch. She had soft skin ... and she didn't pull away. "Forgive me, Golden Angel," he said, "I feel a fool."

"You're lonely," The woman said, genuinely feeling touched by The Phantom's plight, "and you think everyone is against you. Things are different now. People don't look at others such as yourself with disdain, as you might think. There is surgery now that can change your face... It can..."

"No. I am what I am, Angel." How could he explain to this mortal that Lucifer had bought his soul and no amount of surgery would ever make a difference? He took one of her hands and laid it on his arm. He walked Cinnamon to a small boat and mimed her to sit, "I will take you to your friends, to your lover, and you will forget all about me." Erik boarded the boat and took hold of the oars.

Cinnamon began to feel emotions long dormant, "But I want to know about you. What's your name? How have you lived so long? Tell me about Christine Daae' and why you..."

"No." He rowed.

"Please, let me come see you again."

"No." There vas threat in his voice now, "You will never come here again or I will kill you. Is that clear?"

Yes, she understood. It was not fair but she understood. He didn't want to be reminded of what he could never have: A woman he could cherish and take care of. A female to spend intimate nights with, the two of them enjoying the pleasures of his music.

The poor creature … The poor unfulfilled man.

[]

Conclusion coming soon …


	3. Chapter 3 - Conclusion

**[3 - CONCLUSION]**

The Phantom had escorted her from his lair to the secret entrance, behind a full length mirror, into a dressing room. He then slammed the looking glass shut behind her, not saying one further word to her.

Cinnamon felt sad and slightly wounded. She wandered from the dressing room - all of the performers long gone - to the stage.

Here, Limoise spotted her. "Claudia! Where have you been? Why did you not return to your seat, Dearest?" He approached, lifting his arms to her.

Cinnamon brushed a straying strand of hair away from her face and watched as he drew near from the opposite end of the stage.

"Cheri', answer me. Where have you been?" He held her close, in an impassioned hug. One might even have thought he cared. But, of course, he did. Limoise was paranoid and fearful of what might be going on behind his back. He cared a great deal and this eloquent facade of concern was shielding a brutal demand for an answer.

"Forgive me, Louis." Cinnamon quickly improvised, "I became ill. Too much champagne and caviar, I suppose. Even now I'm not myself. I went out for some air. There I stood, thinking about us and our intentions. I've also been thinking about my father..."

"Oh?"

Cinnamon could feel his body stiffen a little against her. He pulled back as she continued. "We've never gotten along, my father and I. You know that, but he is still my Daddy and I'm beginning to wonder if I'm not making a horrible mistake." She pushed from his embrace, her eyes downcast. The genuine misery Cinnamon was feeling over the abrupt disappearance of her friend, The Phantom, helped add to the performance. "I need to go back to the hotel and think on this."

She was falling back on a similar scenario which was arranged last night (after the IMF's "comedy of errors") by Jim Phelps and discussed between he and his agents this morning. Claudia Bernard, a woman who could never be trusted, would begin to rethink her options. She would grow cold toward Limoise and make excuses. He would become enraged and - on a fitting night -he would come to her hotel room and strangle her to death.

Cinnamon suddenly decided on a similar but slightly different path. What if Claudia, the errant American daughter to one of the most powerful men in France, suddenly came down with a case of "guilty conscience"? She would be just as big a threat to her partner, if not more, because of her basic goodness. An evil individual could always be swayed back to wickedness but a sincerely reformed person attempted to steer clear of what was bad — and often thought to wash himself/herself clean of one time corruption by turning in all of those who had introduced him/her to vice in the first place.

"Claudia, I don't understand you. Where is this coming from?" Limoise's eyes darkened and his accent became thicker, "It was your utter lack of scruples that drew me to you in the first place... "

"I know." Cinnamon extracted herself completely from his possessive arms and turned to look out where an enthralled audience sat just an hour and a half before, "I don't really understand it either. Perhaps I do have principles after all."

Cinnamon didn't realize he had come up behind her until his hands were on her shoulders, roughly turning the woman about in a gesture of outrage.

"You can't do this to me!" Limoise shouted. The man's breathing was erratic and a visible vein was throbbing at his temple. "You stupid woman..."

This time Cinnamon jerked away from Limoise in honest fear. She hadn't expected such an explosion from him so soon. The idea was to get him in her hotel room so pictures could be taken by her fellow IMF team members. Now, here and alone, she was at his mercy. Cinnamon attempted to speak soothingly, "Now Louise, I'm not saying I'm going to abandon you. I just need time ..."

_Time. Hadn't she asked Rollin for time?_

"Shut up!" A rash and unthinking Limoise slapped the woman before she finished the sentence, bringing an unnatural crimson blush to her left porcelain colored cheek. "I will hear no more of this!" His arms raised again, this time to grasp Cinnamon's wrist, her hands already lifted, cupping her burning face. "You're coming with me...," he demanded, tugging sharply and dragging his reluctant companion to the stage's apron.

Again, he stood behind her and held Cinnamon by the shoulders. He leaned her dangerously over the opening to the orchestra pit.

"Look, Cheri'. There is no performance tomorrow evening. This is where you will be found a few days from now ... _dead_!"

"Louis, no!," Cinnamon cried. Limoise's shaking hands turned her to face him. Cinnamon knew that he liked to look at the expressions on the faces of the women he murdered. Fingers crept around her throat and pressed hard. Cinnamon closed her eyes and struggled blindly. She couldn't look at him as she grappled or, Cinnamon feared, he would get the better of her without a challenge. Yet, as hard as she tried, Miss Carter could feel herself losing the battle. Air was being forced from her lungs at an incredible rate and the pain of Limoise's attack was overwhelming.

Then there came an unexpected sound. A tinkling of piano keys … or no. The sound of crystal …

Cinnamon, feeling her body being catapulted, expected the end was near. There was a loud crash ...but it was not her plummeting body slamming to the floor of the orchestra pit. No, this was something else. She heard muffled voices and felt warm, comforting arms about her.

Gasping, the woman opened her eyes and looked up. She half expected to see The Phantom... but it was _Rollin_. He'd picked her up as she lay on the stage floor, holding her closely and softly touching her bruised cheek.

"What..?" Cinnamon started with confusion, sitting up on her own.

Across from them lay the body of Louis Limoise, impaled by a huge and now shattered chandelier. The crystals of the immense structure lay everywhere, many at Cinnamon's feet. "How...?" she croaked, looking up at Rollin again. One of Cinnamon's hands went to her own throat. Talking caused pain.

She saw Phelps and Barney, along with a few policemen, observing the scene.

"I saw you leave during the second act," Rollin explained. "I knew something was up when you didn't return. I found Jim and we decided to stick around for awhile. Barney went back to the hotel to see if you returned there for whatever reason, then he came back."

"But the chandelier..." Cinnamon struggled to her feet with Rollin's help. His arm remained around her shoulders.

"It wasn't us." Jim Phelps joined them, "We were hidden, ready to spring when Limoise started to choke you... But then, the chandelier let loose and fell on him. It was as if someone else was in the theater, protecting you."

"You saw no one?" Rollin asked, looking at Jim.

Suddenly inspired, Cinnamon glanced up toward Box Five. There, she saw the outline of a figure. It slowly backed away when it saw where her attention was directed. Inexplicably, Cinnamon smiled.

A worried Jim and Rollin looked at her, then at each other.

"I think we better get you to a hospital," Phelps suggested.

Cinnamon leaned into Rollin, her smile widening. It did not seem to matter to her that Jim Phelps was watching them. It felt good in the arms of the man she loved. She needed to tell him something. "Yes, take me to the hospital," she said, "And Jim, Rollin and I need to have a talk with you..."

Rollin looked deeply into her eyes. She had made her decision and he was delighted.

Phelps nodded. He suspected as much.

Barney joined the trio as they walked from the stage.

They would leave the remaining mess to the local authorities. Let them figure out what really happened... Limoise was no longer a threat.

_Mission: Accomplished._

Cinnamon couldn't help - just one last time - looking over her shoulder. There, The Phantom of the Opera stood in his beloved Box Five. He waved goodbye to her.

"'til we meet again, mon cheri'," he whispered.

Then, as swiftly as he appeared Erik was gone, leaving a red rose on one of the chairs for Cinnamon Carter, or someone else, to find at a later date.

[]

Sept. - Oct. 1994

Re Edit December 2012


End file.
